


verdigris

by chidorinnn



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Haircuts, Introspection, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:55:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28533270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chidorinnn/pseuds/chidorinnn
Summary: ver·di·grisnthe common name for a green pigment obtained through the application of acetic acid to copper plates or the natural patina formed when copper, brass or bronze is weathered and exposed to air or seawater over time.–in all honesty, the state of Byleth's hair is probably the least of anyone’s concerns, including her own. Claude knows, logically, that fixing it will barely scratch the surface of whatever it is that she’s dealing with now – but it’s the easiest thing to address. It’s a small gesture, but if it could get her to feel just a little bit like her old self, then it would be worth it.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 53
Collections: Nagamas Gifts





	verdigris

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amuk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amuk/gifts).



> prompt: Claude/Byleth, fluff or hurt/comfort or angst, canon or au 
> 
> a very happy nagamas to [@amukWrites](https://twitter.com/amukWrites)! i've always been rather intrigued about the reality of post-time skip byleth, more or less unchanged after five years. that all of their former students are suddenly so much older and have likely been changed so much by a war they slept through must have come as a huge shock. thanks for giving me an excuse to toy with that concept a little!
> 
> hope you enjoy this :D

Honestly, it’s a miracle that Byleth is even here at all.

This is what Claude reminds himself in the coming days, as the ruins of Garreg Mach spring back to some semblance of life after five years. They’re all older now, and changed from the years since the monastery fell – it’s a proven fact that Claude can’t bring himself to deny, no matter how hard the others try to make it seem like the way it used to be between them, in more peaceful times when they were all students here and there was no war looming over their heads.

There’s a certain seriousness to Hilda’s demeanor that wasn’t quite there before, all of those times she’d wheedle someone for an out whenever she was expected to work; she sits glued to Balthus’ side, and Claude can’t quite tell if it’s at Holst’s bequest or her own – turning to him every so often and whispering something to him just subtly enough that Claude almost doesn’t notice when she does it. There’s a furrow that’s settled semi-permanently on Raphael’s brow, even though it smoothens every time he makes the effort to smile like he used to, whenever someone catches his attention, and a certain tension to Ignatz’s shoulders that refuses to fade. Lysithea doesn’t smile at all anymore – her eyes may soften a bit from time to time, but the tiny, barely noticeable upward quirk of her lips is unwelcome in its expectedness, for all her motivation during their school days to power forward.

But each classmate, both Golden Deer and not, who emerged from this war changed but alive and _well_ is yet another reminder that Byleth is neither. She’s breathing, sure, but there’s a certain glint to her eyes that wasn’t there before – something that she doesn’t mask nearly as well as she probably thinks she does, for all the excuses that Seteth and Flayn trip over themselves to provide for her. A deep shadow has imprinted itself upon her face, making her look perpetually exhausted; her hair has grown long and unkempt in these past years; her old armor, that she’s worn since her mercenary days, is beyond repair from half a decade’s worth of rust and rot. Leonie hardly ever leaves her side these days, almost as bad as Seteth – and there’s something older there, than whatever existed between them as professor and student.

Byleth’s footsteps, once so assured and purposeful, are out of joint, every stumble threatening to send her crumbling to the ground – and if there is any confirmation that something fundamental has changed within her, it’s in how out of place she seems in her own body. It could be a change that took root at some point in her five-year slumber, but the source, Claude surmises, was in that moment when she tore a hole in the sky itself, and her hair was no longer blue, but a radiant green like Seteth, Flayn, and Rhea’s.

In all honesty, the state of her hair is probably the least of anyone’s concerns, including her own. In his academy days, he remembers Hilda trying to wrangle it, before marching off in a huff and declaring it far too silky and slippery to hold any of the ribbons and pins she’d tried to shove into it; how Byleth is managing it now is anyone’s guess.

Claude knows, logically, that fixing her hair will barely scratch the surface of whatever it is that she’s dealing with now – but it’s the easiest thing to address. It’s a small gesture, but if it could get her to feel just a little bit like her old self, then it would be worth it.

“So,” he says with a bit of cheer that he doesn’t entirely feel. “How short are you thinking?”

“Short…?” Byleth echoes, her voice a faint, rasping thing. There’s an edge to it that he can’t quite place – something he can’t remember being there in any conversation he’d had with her or in any of her lectures when she was his teacher.

Claude combs through her hair with his fingers, weaves them around the tangles. “Your hair,” he says. “There are three ways we could go about this: we could cut it back to the length it was before… or we could go shorter or longer than that. Your choice.”

She exhales slowly and curls in on herself a little, bringing her knees to her chest. He wonders, then, when was the last time she’d had her hair cut? Had she done it herself? Had it been Jeralt to do it for her instead? “You know…” Claude amends, “I could always get Leonie to come do this instead, if you’d prefer that. Or perhaps Seteth or Flayn?”

Byleth shakes her head, the usual – practiced – mask of impassivity sliding over her features. “No, this is fine,” she says, her voice just a little bit steadier. “I’ve troubled them enough as it is.”

If she were to ask him, Claude would say that she hasn’t bothered them nearly enough – but he keeps it to himself for the time being. “What do you say to shoulder-length?” he asks, deliberately casual. “Short enough to manage easily, but long enough to tie back if you need to.”

“That’s fine,” she answers.

He sets to work, then. The blade cuts cleanly through the thin, nearly frayed ends of her hair, whisps of radiant green tumbling to the ground. She holds herself almost stiffly upright, and he doesn’t blame her for it – the smart thing these days is to get nervous when anyone, friend or foe, brings a blade so close to your face. “So,” he says. “Were you really sleeping for five whole years?”

She hums, considering the question. “It didn’t feel like five years.”

“Then what did it feel like?”

She inhales deeply, her arms tightening around her knees. “Like I died,” she answers quietly. “Only… after a certain point, it was no longer acceptable for me to remain dead. So I woke up.”

… there’s something oddly heavy to her voice – a second meaning in there somewhere, to which Claude isn’t privy. “Don’t let Seteth hear you saying that,” is what he settles for in the meantime. “And here I thought his fussing over _Flayn_ was bad.”

“He only worries because he cares,” she says. “All he’s ever wanted is for the people in his care to remain healthy and safe. I won’t begrudge him for that.”

… huh. Five years ago, she might have quipped about how stuffy and overbearing Seteth can be, even at the best of times. That she doesn’t think to do so now can be further evidence that this war has changed them all, or that it’s her that’s changed so significantly. “They seem to be doing well, though,” he says. “Despite the circumstances.”

She hums. “As are the rest of you,” she replies.

“No doubt because you taught us well,” says Claude.

“Or perhaps,” she counters, “I didn’t teach you well enough.”

… well, that’s not true. It’s not something he can simply _tell_ her, though – not with this war looming over their heads, that none of them had seen coming to begin with. The war had been as unexpected as Tomas’s betrayal, as the death of her father, as the moment where she’d cleaved a hole in the sky itself and hair and eyes were no longer a dull blue, but a bright and radiant green.

–as if the goddess herself had smiled down on Byleth, in that moment. It’s the kind of miracle that has no place outside of fairy stories, but it’s the only explanation Claude can think of for how these past years have hardly touched her at all. A part of him wonders if it’s a good thing at all – if she had any choice in the matter, if she will even _survive_ this contract with the goddess because the sheer power of such an entity should be far too much for a frail mortal body to bear. It’s not a burden that even Seteth and Flayn can’t bear with her, despite the depths of knowledge and experience that they fail to mask, even at the best of times – for Claude to presume that he can alleviate even a little of it is the height of arrogance.

… but for now, he can cut her hair. He can remain by her side as she struggles to relearn how to _be_ , in this war that none of them wanted, in this body that seems no longer entirely human.

“I don’t blame anyone for this war,” says Claude, pulling on the ends of her hair to see if they align properly, “except Edelgard for instigating it, and Rhea for failing to anticipate it. You did the best you could, given the circumstances.”

She turns to face him, eyes as blank as ever and far more eerie in how they glow green. “Do you think this war was justified?”

Claude sighs, and pats away the long strands of cut hair from her shoulders and back. “I think,” he says, “the Church of Seiros has been keeping secrets for _far_ too long, and deliberately turning a blind eye to all manners of atrocity that have occurred as a result of those secrets. Whether those secrets are _justified_ , I can’t say.”

He sighs, wearily, and sinks to the floor next to her. “To be perfectly honest,” he says, “this war has dragged on for far too long. I just want some _answers_.”

Byleth sighs, too, tipping sideways into him. “You and me, both.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading :)


End file.
